"...not as vocabulary, not as syntax, not even as structure, but as a principle and a presence." -John Berger

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Friday, March 24, 2006

James Wright: poems

BEFORE THE CASHIER’S WINDOW IN A DEPARTMENT STORE

1.

The beautiful cashier’s white face has risen once moreBehind a young manager’s shoulder. They whisper together, and stare Straight into my face. I feel like grabbing a stray child And diving into a cellar, crouching Under a stone bridge, praying myself sick, Till the troops pass.

2.

Why should he care? He goes. I slump deeper.In my frayed coat, I am pinned downBy debt. He nods Commending my flesh to the pity of the daws of God.

3.

Am I dead? And, if not, why not? For she sails there, alone, looming in the heaven of the beautiful. She knows The bulldozers will scrape me up After dark, behind The officer’s club. Beneath her terrible blaze, my skeleton Glitters out. I am the dark. I am the darkBone I was born to be.

4.

Tu Fu woke shuddering on a battlefieldOnce, in the dead of night, and made outThe mangled women, sortingThe haggard slant-eyes. The moon was up.

5.

I am hungry. In two more daysIt will be Spring. So: thisIs what it feels like.

* * *

DEPRESSED BY A BOOK OF BAD POETRY, I WALK TOWARD AN UNUSED PASTURE AND INVITE THE INSECTS TO JOIN ME

Relieved, I let the book fall behind a stone.I climb a slight rise of grass.I do not want to disturb the antsWho are walking single file up the fence post,Carrying small white petals,Casting shadows so frail that I can see through them.I close my eyes for a moment and listen.The old grasshoppersAre tired, they leap heavily now,Their thighs are burdened.I want to hear them, they have clear sounds to make.Then lovely, far off, a dark cricket beginsIn the maple trees.